dictator

dictatorship and war

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Submitted by antarchi on September 4, 2007 - 01:30.
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About two years ago, a friend in Russia said that she had long been thinking about interviewing the last survivors of the Stalin era, to see how they perceived those years, and to remind the Russian public of the full horror of what happened. She was concerned about the gradual rehabilitation of Stalin in official discourse, the return to power of Russia's secret services and the increasingly authoritarian tendencies of the Putin regime. And she was concerned that young people in today's Russia are taught almost nothing about that period of history; that almost all they know about it is from the official discourse.

I had an ulterior motive in joining her in the project - a motive which in a way was opposite to hers. I was concerned about the discourse in the 'west', where enemy dictators are identified and vilified, then separated off from the context and society in which they have come to power. I was sick of the finger-pointing, the moral high-horses, and the evil dictator discourse - whether that concerned Stalin or Hitler or Saddam or Slobodan (depending on the point the finger-pointer needed to make or the country they wanted to invade). I was sick of the idea that you remove the man and plant democracy in his place, and sick of what Jean Bricmont calls the humanitarian imperialists: self-righteous politicians, journalists and academics justifying savage bombing campaigns, illegal invasions and punitive economic sanctions in the name of human rights. Or human rights workers standing on the fence while the bombs fly.

In the 'west', dictators are the ultimate evil, along with paedophiles - and anything is justified to take them off the earth. But I wish the west (by which I mean humanitarian imperialists in the west) would take note of the other dictators, those we have supported or put into power - like Pinochet, Suharto or even Saddam in another era. I wish the west would look at daily life in a dictatorship, and daily life in an invaded, war-torn country - and then say which is best. I wish the west would ask whether a death from torture is anyway much worse than death from malnutrition or starvation, and I wish the west would look at how they (we) treat the citizens of developing nations, safely beyond our borders and safely out of reach of the human rights instruments which only apply to governments' treatment of their own citizens. I wish that we would try our own mass murderers in an international court, that we would count the victims that we are responsible for murdering in other regions of the world. We do not even bother to do that.

And I wish the humanitarian imperialists would see that if they do fail to do all this, if they fail to be informed about the crimes their own governments are committing, if they fail to shout about those crimes, and fail to keep on shouting until the crimes have stopped - then they show that they would be the ones who would be propping up dictators, had they been unfortunate enough to have been born in another part of the globe.

fatso

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Submitted by antarchi on August 23, 2008 - 17:44.
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Media critic Philip Hammond observed that within 24 hours of the start of NATO bombing, "the Yugoslav president had been described by the UK press as a 'warlord' a 'Serb butcher', the 'Butcher of Belgrade', the 'Butcher of the Balkans', 'the most evil dictator to emerge in Europe since Adolph Hitler', a 'psychopath', a 'Serb tyrant', a 'psychopathic tyrant', 'evil', a 'man of no mercy', and a 'former communist hardliner'. Casting around for insults, the Star added that he was 'dumpy'.

— Diana Johnstone, Fool's Crusade">Fool's Crusade

british support for suharto

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Submitted by antarchi on February 10, 2008 - 14:30.
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In 1993, the Foreign Affairs Committee of the Australian Parliament reported that “at least 200,000” had died under Indonesia’s occupation: almost a third of the population...

For three decades, the Australian, US and British governments worked tirelessly to minimise the crimes of Suharto’s gestapo, known as Kopassus, who were trained by the Australian SAS and the British army and who gunned down people with British-supplied Heckler and Koch machine guns from British-supplied Tactica “riot control” vehicles.

In one year, the British Department of Trade provided almost a billion pounds worth of so-called soft loans, which allowed Suharto buy Hawk fighter-bombers. The British taxpayer paid the bill for aircraft that dive-bombed East Timorese villages, and the arms industry reaped the profits.

— John Pilger

Evdokia Zaharovna

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Submitted by antarchi on October 21, 2007 - 18:31.
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Velikie Luki

It's the 12th October, 6.10, and we are at the home of Evdokia Zaharovna

What shall I start with?

Tell us about your family, your parents and grandparents

I was born in a village. My parents – father was in the army. He was a communist in 1917. ?here.

What was his name?

Zahar Dmitrievich. I was brought up with my grandmother and grandfather. There was my great grandmother too, she was over 100. A very large family. My father worked all the time.

Where did he work?

He was at the front, then he became a communist, there at the front. He was awarded a silver cross for the first Civil War. He got a medal. Then I lived in the village, till about the 4th class. I lived there all the time.

Which region?

Ryazan, Barsuka village. I went to school in the first class. Our village was very small and the school was 20 kilometres away. There were 30 houses and very few children. There was a landowner – he lived separately. We lived in a wooden house, and the teacher was cruel, very cruel. One little boy hadn't done his homework and she hit him on the head with a ruler. Hit him so that the blood flowed. That's what she was like. I studied there for 7 years, and then the revolution ended – there was a revolution, you know. I remember it well, we used to go around at school, as little girls: 'Down with the Tsar! Down with the Tsar!' Everyone did that.

Which year did you start school?

What? In the eighth class.

When you were eight?

Yes, 8 years old. I went to school... I passed my exams, and then I left school. We used to be very active as komsomol members, we did lots of sport. And we did dancing. They knocked the church down, smashed it... We did lots of sport... lots of sport... and of course, young people used to organise meetings. Then my father was transferred to ... to that town – it's called Spas now. So I went to school till the 8th class, finished school, and went straight off to college in Ryazan, to the teacher training college. I wanted to go to medical college, but father wouldn't let me. But at medical college I was also in the komsomol, I was one of the ones in charge. And then the theatre – I had a good voice, I sang well, I even did things there.

Performances?

Group performances. But then when I finished college, I was sent off – they sent me off – or rather, I didn't finish college. I was in the 4th year and then [the war?] started. There weren't enough teachers, and there was great demand. I didn't finish college, but there were 4 komsomol members from the college and on the 30th January they released us from studies and sent us off to different villages.

Which year was that?

I don't remember... they sent me off and others to other villages. But I got a good one. There were workers there and a sovhoz (state farm). In the day time I worked at school, and in the evenings I worked with illiterate people. I had a difficult group, and I should have had a second one as well. We all had to have 2 groups because we had to finish our studies – we hadn't finished.

Three teachers left before I got there, and I was the only one to arrive. To start with they would fight, fight with each other, and I would sit there, silently. Then I say to them – 'OK lads, that's it, that's enough fighting'. They were silent, they didn't say anything. 'Ah well... alright, I understand: you don't want to study, don't want to learn. That's fine, so I'm off now lads, good bye, I'm off'. They say – 'No, no, don't think that – we won't fight any more'. 'Well', I say, 'don't just give me your word for it, give me your word as pioneers'. So they gave me their word as pioneers, and then I started to work with them seriously. In the breaks they did a lot of sport, and they changed completely. Became quite different lads.

You taught grammar and sport?

We did sport at the weekends, and in breaks. I would let them out for break, they took a rest, and I did some sport with them – we really liked that. And you know what – they used to do pyramids. Lots of that. So I worked for a year there, then they called me up and asked me to work as an inspector.

Yes – that was good. They sent me to Moscow, and I studied for another month there. But when I worked in the villages, that was really awful. Collectivisation. I was a komsomol member and they sent me all over the place. Once they arrived and told me to go and get my things ready. It was evening already and I asked them 'Where to?'. They said 'You're coming with us', and I said 'I'm not going anywhere at all. I need to go to work tomorrow'. 'Yes you are – go and get your things'. So we drove and drove, and all along the road they were shooting at us.

Then afterwards I worked a lot in the organisation of the kolkhoz. That's what it was like. Then they always made sure I sat away from the window.

What – because of the shooting?

Yes – so that I stayed alive. Well – there were times when the women all met together. It was very difficult – they were shouting, fighting, the men were swearing. Lots of times we actually had to close the meeting. But once I managed to take control: I said 'Alright, let's all swear. I can swear too. I can swear, so let's swear together. But I'm not sure what good it will do: we won't build the kolkhoz on swear words'. Well, we talked a bit, and then we all split up. One of the other teachers says to me, 'Come and stay the night', so I say 'Alright, let's go'. The komsomol members were keeping watch all the time, so we went off to the school with her. And there were stones flying around my head, stones they were throwing at me, all over the place. So on the second day I sat down and I thought...

I thought: I need a plan. I need a plan for what I do tomorrow, because tomorrow we have to have another meeting. We hadn't made any decisions, hadn't decided anything. So I think: tomorrow I'm going to battle with them again. Again I'll have to swear with them.

So we voted for the chairmen and the secretaries of the party organisations. I say to them – 'Well come on then, let's do some swearing and get going'. But they all shouted and shouted and I say 'You're going to be shouting for a long time, shall we try to get something done? Come on, really, it'll be fun to work', I say to them. Well – at long last, an intelligent person came forward. And it wasn't a bad meeting.

The kolkhoz?

Yes – only gradually, of course, we had to make note of all the animals. So I went home, got in the door – and everything should have been alright only I didn't feel calm. You understand – I just didn't feel at ease.

And the school was built on a high level, very high, so that you couldn't have climbed up. And I can hear that someone is climbing up... they knock at the door, and I just turned, and there was a shot. If I'd been sitting down there, I wouldn't have been alive.

And there are children there, and I'm alive. And the children sent messages, rang around to say that I'd been killed, and a whole brigade was sent to find me – and saw me alive. That's how it all was.

And that was all in Ryazan oblast?

Ryazan. Then I left Ryazan and worked regularly not as a teacher but as – what's it called?

In the organisation?

As inspector. But I worked for schools all the time. I did everything, helped the young teachers, told them how to run lessons. And even the older ones too – I could give them a few tips. Some of them had been learning for 30 years. I was intimidated – I was only 30, I was even scared of teaching. I sat still and didn't go to work: I wasn't going to be an inspector, and that was that. Then they wanted to make me the Deputy Head of the regional education authority – but they didn't, of course. I didn't want to. And then there was wartime recruitment.

Of course, I'd just got married and my husband was serving in Leningrad in the army. Mama came to visit me and she said 'Come on, let's go', but they wouldn't let me go. 'You're not going! We've got no-one to work, there's lots to do'. And they wouldn't let anyone go. I decided to go: I bought a ticket and left without any of my documents.

her daughter asks: Where did you go, Mama?

To Suzdal.... So I arrived and they sent me off straight away. I worked in the school there – they made me Director (head teacher). Then the war started.

My husband – he was sent away.

The Great Fatherland War [2nd World War]?

Yes. My husband... he was sent away, he should have finished in the army, but they kept him – and he took me with him. So I worked in Leningrad, in a school, early years. Then I fell ill... No – then they took me into the regional section of the Party, and I worked there. I was in charge of documents: I wrote out tickets and checked everything over. But then I had a terrible misfortune. My little girl died, then a second one died, and I became very ill. The doctors – local neurologists – said they couldn't cure me. They sent me to the Behterev Institute, where there was a department of psychiatry, and I stayed there for 2 years. I was in such a state that my head was quite messed up. They wanted to open up my skull, but I wouldn't let them. I'd rather die... 'Keep away from me.. I won't let you'. Anyway, they cured me there – cured me with everything under the sun. I was a mass of injections, all sorts of different medical machines, tablets...

and? Did it help?

(inaudible) Then they sent me off for a rest cure, to Gelendzhik. I stayed there for a while.

Did that cure you?

And then, in Leningrad... I went back there. Later on they sent my husband to the border, to Karelia... I've forgotten where it was.

Sestroretsk

No – the place in Karelia.

aha. Well it doesn't matter.

No – it's not important.

I arrived there – I hadn't been there for 2 whole years. They got us all together, all the women, and they said 'Come on, let's do some teaching. There are lots of illiterate women, and we haven't got any teachers. There isn't one. Maybe there's someone among you who's a teacher'. And I stuck my neck out and said 'I'm a teacher. I've got a degree'. They said to me 'Alright. So you're going to teach everyone'. I said I could only teach the illiterates 'I can't teach that lot'. Well, anyway, they found two more and we worked together. Then they wanted to choose me to be head of the kolhoz. I said nothing... I mean I don't know any Korean [sic?]. I said 'I can't do it'. And they said to me: 'You just show us what to do and we'll do it'. So I had to work.

Did you work as head of the kolhoz then?

I did, but I worked just for a short while, and then the war started. We went off into the forest one day for mushrooms – and there were so many of them. So, so many. So anyway, we went into the forest, and we're just walking along as if nothing is happening, and we got right to the Finnish border. We got to the border, and we were captured. Of course it wasn't the Finns that captured us, but our border guards. They shouted at us of course, and then took us...

Can you tell us – when you compare life in those days with life today, which was better? Do they differ in significant ways, and was it better then or now?

I lived well then, and I live well now. I live like a duchess now! It's good to be with someone, isn't that right? It's true – I don't work now, and that bothers me. I want to work, but I can't. I just sat down on the floor here, I felt terrible. I felt as if I was dying, everything was being taken from me. 'Well what on earth is this then! I won't lie down, not for anything in the world'. I'm alone alone in the flat and I shout out: 'I'm not going to die, not for all the money in the world! I'll get up off the floor, and I'll be fine, and you know – what am I dying for anyway? I've got two lovely grandsons and I need to watch how they are going to grow up.' So I got up, and I was perfectly alright.

Which times in your life were the best for you?

Oh – you know: I've lived through so much. Of course I've been very spoiled.

Which were the happiest years Mama? (her daughter asking)

Ah – the happiest?

Which years?

I'm alright. I worked all my life. For as long as I could, I worked.

Can you tell us about events connected with Stalin? Who did people blame? Those people who were arrested... people you knew, people in your circle, who did they blame?

Those who deserved it – them, of course. They should definitely be blamed. They lived among us, some of them used to come and see me. Communists used to come to me with false documents. But some of the others – well of course.

They ended up there by mistake, you mean?

Yes. But those that did it, they should be blamed.

Was Stalin blamed for the repression?

I don't remember.

Was Stalin blamed at that time for the repression?

I don't remember that. Some people said that it was wrong to blame Stalin, I heard that from some people. Someone asked me once, one of our communists in Suzdal asked me what I think about Stalin, and I said that he had never done anything to hurt me. And what he did, it must have been necessary – because. It must have been necessary, because you don't just take a person away for no reason.

Well... it's not certain

Not certain!

Lots of innocent people were arrested

No – you know what.

Perhaps it wasn't so much Stalin that was responsible

No, you know – what was he called... Beria was the one who was responsible. Beria. Beria – that was a real animal. I didn't like him. He just chased after the ladies.

Is that right?

Of course.

And what was people's reaction when Stalin died?

We all cried.

daughter speaks: I remember – I was at school then. The school was very small and we had a special wall in the hall, and they got us all together and announced a minute's silence – and everyone cried. Then in the street – the people flooded into the streets. There was a loud speaker, and everyone gathered and we all cried. It was a national holiday.

grandmother again: You know what I think. One person can't be responsible for all that. There was a whole department. Really.

Well, yes. And can you tell us – are you a religious person? Did you go to church?

Yes, I am, I used to go to church on anniversaries, then I stopped going.

The church was taken down, is that right?

No – I didn't do anything.

But you saw it?

Yes, I saw it – it was in front of the school. The children tore it down. And in Suzdal there were 34 churches. I don't know how they did that.

daughter: 33 churches, Mama.

33?

daughter: 33, and only one of them was functioning.

Grandmother: Well... they loaded everything up, put it all into one place.

And what happened with those who worked in the churches, priests?

Oh I don't know about that. I didn't hear anything. I left Suzdal.

What did the (Communist) Party mean for you at that time? Did you believe in Communism?

I believed, and I did everything I was meant to do. I was 50 years in the Party. I've got a medal for it.

What did your parents do?

My mother was Praskovya Mihailovna – she worked at home. Looked after the land we had.

And your father?

daughter: He was a member of parliament, isn't that right, Mama?

I don't know. She was at home all the time. She had 6 children.

And your father?

He was in the army. They took him away, and we never saw him. He met Stalin, he fought with him.

Really!

And he knew Lenin, and he knew Krupskaya.

And you?

Well – she came to visit us. And she was very simple, ordinary. I went up to her and I said 'Could I talk to you please?' and she said 'Come and see me tomorrow, and we shall talk'. Well I went to see her on the following day, but she had already gone, she'd left. They had told her to go, and she left. And then in Suzdal they used to call me Krupskaya! (laughs)

And you met Yesenin as well?

No – I didn't actually meet him. He courted my friend for a while, that's what happened. But I never met him.

Very interesting

Yes – my story is long. Wherever I've been, I have been happy. I remember they sent me from one village to a different one, I was working for the MVD (home office), and I had to find something out. And the river was flooded, very flooded... and I set off, I was very tired. I thought – if I cross it, I'll drown. You had to jump from one piece of ice to another. Well I did it in the end, I jumped, and I was alright. Then they told me later on – we'll take you across next time. But who I worked with, I can't remember.

Well of course, with your age.

No – it's my head... I don't remember anything.

And all your documents are lost? Have you got nothing left?

I have my Party membership card.

Can we photograph it? Do you remember what you received it for?

Of course you can. I don't remember... I went somewhere... I don't remember, honestly.

Bazoleva, Maria Nikolaeva

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Submitted by antarchi on August 8, 2007 - 01:41.
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Novosokolniki

18 December, 2006

Interviewed by Nina Vasilevna and Anastasia Sushko.

* * *

This is Nina Vasilevna and Anastasia Sushko, we are at the home of Bazoleva, Maria Nikolaeva. Are you still sleeping?

I didn't sleep all night.

I see. We're here for the second time, you know... and we wondered if we could ask you some questions... Could you tell us whether you were born in Novosokolniki?

I was born in the village of Kruglikova, in this region... My parents worked the land. My father was Daryanov, Nikolaj Yakovlevich, my mother was Daryanova, Tatiana Dmitrievna. I have one brother, Ivan Nikolaevich, he lives in Otradnoe.

...
I was born in 1936, I was very young in the 1930s and 1940s. Well – I remember from my mother's stories that that was when there was de-kulakisation. But we weren't – there was nothing to be taken from us. We weren't completely starving, but we were quite poor. But my relatives were de-kulakised – I'm not sure which ones, but they were not distant relatives. They had their livestock taken, grain, everything they possessed.

Tell us which was the most difficult period

The war, and just after it. We were very young, and very hungry, we had nothing.

Can you tell us – did you go to church at all?

No, I never went. There was a church in the village, but it was burnt down in the war, vandalised, and I don't know what happened afterwards.

If you compare life then with what it is like now?

No – it wasn't really easier then – now perhaps it's a little easier: at least we do receive something, then it was nothing at all. My mother first received a pension of 8 rubles, but which year that was – it must have been after the war, maybe it was in the 1980s already, I don't know. I know she got 8 rubles to start with, then 12 rubles. Then when she died, they got 25 rubles each. She worked all the time in the kolkhoz, looked after the calves, grazed them and looked after them. She had to feed them, milk them, then we took it in turns. We got up at 4.00 am and either Mama or one of us went off to graze the cows.

Today people talk a lot about Stalin, in the newspapers and on television – what do you think, is it true what they say?

Well what do they say? They say bad things, do they?

Well... they praise him and they curse him

I wouldn't curse him, I started to work when he died. In March 1953, I went off to work at MTS. That's where they took us and sent us off to the kolkhoz.

So you have a positive view of Stalin?

No – not positive. He did nothing wrong to me. Everyone cried, was in mourning: 'what's going to happen now to the country? There's nothing left, no-one left'.

Did you know at the time about the Stalinist repression? Did you know that people suffered?

Well – I knew. They took people off to Siberia, sent them off, some people – only like that. I knew from my mother's stories. they used to talk about it, that's all, but in general, I didn't know anything about it.

And do you think that that was justified, was it right what they did?

Well, I don't know. If you're talking about the post-war period, maybe it was wrong to send them off. People didn't exactly say it themselves, that they wanted to go off and work for the Germans.

Tell us about those terrifying events, what did you feel at that time?

What did I feel – bad, of course. Felt that it wasn't right. Well, you know, and that treachery – why was that war necessary? Forcing us into that, and the Germans were all different: some of them arrived and they were kind, some marched from Novosokolniki to Nevel, marched past, then they bombed – but not the village. On the outskirts, on the marshes they dropped bombs. Then when they returned, that was when the war had already started. They marched from Belarus.

What do you think – could all of that have been avoided? Or was it as it should have been?

No – I don't know. We were left behind, old people and women. We had nothing to defend ourselves with, we were chased out of our houses and told to go off to the cows and live on bread. But there were frightening Germans too, there were frightening ones and there were humane ones, who showed us pity. Babushka slept on the stove, there wasn't anywhere else for her, we were afraid to go outside to the toilet, we went under the bed, my brother and I. He was 3, I was 5. We were afraid to go out in the street, specially when there was a commandant's office. They told us “schnell, schnell”, take your rags and get out of here, go to the hay loft. We lived in the hay loft with the cow. My mother fenced us off, she put the bed in there.

... then later on they sent us off all over the place, some went to Lithuania. We got there, we travelled the three of us – Mama, my brother and I. Our little house was bombed. We left the house and went off about 2 kilometres into the countryside, where my mother's grandmother and her sister lived. My mother's brother also went there – he came from Leningrad and stayed with us for the war, he was there for the whole war. Mama said 'if we're going to die, we might as well go together'. We cut up the cow, put the meat into barrels, and what things we had – the best things. You can't get everything on a sledge. I don't remember if we took the sledges to Lithuania or not, I don't remember, but I know that I walked behind the horse. Babushka was old, she and my brother rode, but I walked.

Then later on they put us into the goods wagon. We had a whole goods wagon for my family. On one side, the horse stood, and we were on the other side. But how we got back again, well I don't know. I didn't ask Mama who took us back again, I don't know. The Germans said to us – don't hide anything, take everything with you. They hid a lot of stuff in the forest, then later on dug up the piles, but didn't find anything.

Tell us what you think now about people's rights?

Well of course, all sorts of things happen. It's not really that people's rights are violated, of course it's difficult, hard to live and things are bad. I worked for over 50 years. I started work and didn't even have a passport. In 1953, in September, I think, there was an order for everyone to have a passport. And we were ordered as well, although we worked on the land – but we still counted as workers (kadres). We were so stupid then – anyway, what did we need a passport for? Where would we go with that!

But then we weren't able to leave. I worked for 4 years and then they transferred me – they didn't transfer everyone. But they took me from the kolkhoz at MTS to work on accounts at the factory shop, and I worked there for a long time. Then they transferred me to work as cashier. Then the bank ordered that no-one could enter the building without a passport. So I went home and I said to Mama 'I need a passport – where can I get that now?' We didn't need one before. Well, so I went off and got 2 bottles of samogon (vodka) – Mama bought them for a rouble each. There were no plastic bags of course – we put them in a string bag, wrapped them up in newspaper, and off I went to Chistyakov. He worked at the kolkhoz, so I went up to him. He asked me 'well what have you come to me for, you need a document from the kolkhoz. How can I let you go?'. And he just shrugs his shoulders. I said well I don't know – give me the documents, please. He's that sort of man: he says 'I can't, I'd have to get all the management together, no-one will let you go, you should have thought about it earlier'. So I started crying, and I left. I'd already worked enough to get one.

I used to go to the rural Soviet, I knew people there. So I went and found another chairman, a young man, and I went to him and he gave me the document. I went back to MTS with the documents, then I went to the police – and there they make a fuss about every sort of piece of paper. I submitted the documents and went back home, all happy. Then later on they said I could come and pick up my passport. I was shaking all over when I went to pick it up, but I got my passport, and I ran home, so delighted.

And at school I left after the 7th class.

Do you mind if we use what you have told us in our book?

I haven't told any lies. I just talked about myself, about my life.

So we can?

Of course you can.

Can we take a picture of you?

But my hair's all a mess!

Anzel, Victor Vladimirovich

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Submitted by antarchi on August 7, 2007 - 21:22.
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«I remember the 40s well. Payment in our kolkhoz was enough for one kilogramme of bread for a day's work. You can work it out for yourself, well, for example, a hard-working kolkhoznik could earn between 500 to 600 working-days per year. In other words, 500–600 working days' of bread is what you could earn in a year, and you'd have to work every day, that's one thing I remember very clearly, from my memories. Then as far as the organisation of the kolkhoz went – I was very young then, older women told me how that all happened in ..., maybe that would be interesting. In 1935, the kolkhoz was set up, and by that time there were already other kolkhozes, which had been organised more or less according to people's free choice, but kolkhoz... was organised by a Commissar called Kagan, who used to go into a house, put his pistol on the table, and then ask – 'Are you willing to join the kolkhoz?'. In 1932, the population of that village was 180 people, and in 1939 there were only 70 people in the village, in other words, before the war 110 people emigrated to Saint Petersburg, which had strong connections in the revolutionary years.

Other kolkhozes were organised in the same way at that time, for example according to my mother, not far from where we lived – it's Luzhskij region now, there was a settlement. There were 25 small population points ('khutors'), and in 1935 they were all forced into the kolkhoz, and the livestock too, into one place. But the tragedy of that kolkhoz was made even worse in 1937: well, in every family there was obviously a head of the family, a man... and 25 smallholdings got together in one kolkhoz. First of all the chairman of the kolkhoz went round at night time, knocking on the doors, and they took away the head of the household. So first of all they took 23 people, and then they took the head of the kolkhoz away as well, I mean – they didn't come back. Then it was made known that they'd been given 10 years each, without the right to correspond, and you can find them only in the records of Memorial. In other words, they were shot. And then that Estonian kolkhoz had another disaster, just like other Estonian settlements. They came and chopped down ('stropili'?) and ordered everyone to move to a new place, and as a result of that resettlement, my parents ended up in the village of Radolitsa in 1939, then in 1943, I was born. Well – you can say what you like, but it was those 'repressions' that helped me to be born.

Then there's the fate of my mother: in 1934, my grandfather's family was 'de-kulakised'. My mother didn't even finish the 4th class at school, she was born in 1922, and in 1934 she finished the 4th class. They took everything, the family was forced out of the house – 'go – wherever'.

My grandfather sent his 2 daughters to his parents to look after the livestock for the khutor. And in 1935, my mother was still in that place... and in the spring, in April 1935, the whole family – my grandfather, grandmother, 4 children were sent off to the Urals, to the Perm region. But it didn't end there: in 1938, my grandfather and grandmother were shot, they worked at that time at the piloram, you know, as son of an evacuee. They were shot as political spies – you know, that Article 58.

As far as other aspects of life at that time were concerned, well I remember, for example, how difficult... that is – I was born into a kolkhoz, and from the first day I was counted as one of the members of the kolkhoz, then when the time came, later on, around the 50s or 60s, to study, you had to pass an exam to get into the institute, and then you got an official declaration from the institute to say that you had studied there. And after that, only on the 30th August 1961, when I was 18, then I was given the right to receive a passport. In the Pskov region, a passport for members of the kolkhoz was impossible to get, I can assure you of that. It's often said in the press that Khrushev gave the kolkhoz members passports. But it wasn't like that... a large number of the Karl Marx kolkhoz members received a passport only at the beginning of 1979 – that wasn't anything to do with the Khrushev 'thaw'. That was to do with the Yeltsin (sic) Declaration, which Brezhnev signed in 1975 and that meant he had to give everyone a passport in 1979.

Then about other things.. what can I say... well, for example, there's a lot of rubbish about deliberate 'sabotage' concerning livestock. I mean, sensible people have explained to me... yes, the number of livestock began to fall. It was all said to be a result of sabotage. What can you say: we're talking about war. A village was half burned down. The livestock was in the forest, the village was ready, the population was hiding in dug-outs, trenches – so there were no victims among the villagers. The only thing that died was a single butterfly!

Then when I was 2 weeks old, the house was burnt down where I was born, with all my nappies (??). I spent 2 days living in a hut with my parents. Of course we didn't die from starvation.

Then there's one other memory from my childhood, which makes you cry, perhaps. My friends, older than me, their fathers died or went to gaol. I had 2 friends like that. And I go round to see them and they're baking bread. They offer me some bread. I go home and ask 'why don't you bake lovely bread like my friends?' My Dad calls me an idiot and says 'you should try it round their place tomorrow!' In other words, they baked bread, but half the flour was made out of potato skins. So yes, it was warm, and you could eat it, but what else... Well, in theory, I mean it was wartime.

Maybe one more thing worth remembering – in the village these 70 people were called up to go to war. About the same number of evacuees were brought here, based here. Well to our credit, I can say that in my village not one evacuee died from hunger. That is, stuff was shared out. Not a lot, but it was shared. So that was a victory of the civilian population, we forget that 70 people saved maybe another 70 evacuees.

Then once we were playing with a small knife, and we lost it in a furrow and then when they carried out a search, because of us two people were sent to gaol, one of them for 3 years. Whose fault was it? The system. There we go, maybe I've missed something out. That's probably all.»

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